


Willfully Distracted

by FromAnonymousToZ



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Another ask from my tumblr, Distracted Enoch is really the only kind, Distractedness, Fluff, I dont know what Mayors do, I'm a liar apparently, Just two eldritch idiots using eachother as an excuse not to do their work, M/M, Remember how I said I expected to only post one more before the year was up?, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:34:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27435148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FromAnonymousToZ/pseuds/FromAnonymousToZ
Summary: Five times the Beast distracted Enoch from his duties and one time Enoch distracts the Beast.
Relationships: The Beast/Enoch (Over the Garden Wall)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	Willfully Distracted

**Author's Note:**

> Interested in the origin of this story? It was requested [here](https://doyouknowhowtowaltz.tumblr.com/) at my tumblr! Feel free to drop by and if you have a question or request go right ahead and drop it in my ask box!

Enoch is supposed to be sorting pumpkins, separating those that are suitable to be turned into clothing from those that will be made into pies and casseroles and those that will be sold to nearby towns and merchants. 

Keyword, supposed to be. 

Really, he’s done a commendable job, considering the circumstances. 

Typically it's the work of a few afternoons, and really he should be quite finished. He was easily 80% done when he began this evening. 

He can’t be blamed for his distraction. 

Really, the blame falls wholly upon the winter warden, who has decided the proper use of Enoch’s ribbons is implements for a braiding project. 

Perhaps Enoch could have been a little more insistent when saying he had work to do instead of immediately caving to the Beast’s wishes, but really, the blame was on the Beast. 

The barn was an absolute mess, ribbons here and there as the Beast made braids and tied them up in the rafters to keep them out of his way. 

Enoch is impressed with the Beast’s craftsmanship. He’s never seen more delicate or flamboyant bows or neater braids. Enoch can tie the maypole up easy enough, but tying ribbons with ribbons tended to lead to loose knots and droopy bows, serviceable for tying up in the Beast’s antlers but certainly not as pretty as the Beast’s carefully created game of cat’s cradle. 

His task is quite nearly forgotten as he watches the Beast nimbly leap through the rafters. The Beast pauses, selecting a ribbon here or there for his project before finding a place to settle so that he can begin braiding and twisting and carding ribbons idly between his claws as he contemplates. 

Enoch truly cannot help but watch fondly as the Beast creates a little web spanning throughout the barn from his ribbons. 

How could he be asked to sort pumpkins when there was such interesting company who was so insistent with playing with his ribbons.

Enoch watches as the Beast reclines in his little hammock-nest-web hanging from the rafters and frets a ribbon between his claws, perfectly at peace, eyes blue, and thinks that maybe, just maybe, the pumpkins can wait.

* * *

Enoch doesn’t make a habit of making the catskin bigger than it usually is. It's a matter of preference, and he prefers the catskin small and quiet and able to prowl.

But turkeys are notoriously stubborn and unflappable, and in Pottsfeild, they’re taller than a man. It's far easier to round them up when they don’t tower above him. The maypole is too big, it gives them plenty of warning he’s coming, and so, he grows the catskin. 

It’s only to somewhere around turkey-shoulder height, he can still move unseen through the cornfields, and if he keeps his ears down, he can move through wheat without being seen, but it's undoubtedly monstrous. 

He prowls, low to the ground, following the sound of gobbles. 

He finds it easiest to scare them into town, to burst forth and chase them back to their pens. Occasionally he bares his teeth or has to drag one of them back to town, but most of the time, it's just a matter of driving them in the general direction. 

He pounces. 

Wood splinters as it hit the ground, pinned beneath his paws. 

The Beast grunts at the impact, and Enoch’s ears prick forward in surprise. 

He stares down at the Beast who’s eyes dance in furious rings. 

At least, Enoch thinks he’s furious, but the red and yellow fade into blue, and the Beast starts to laugh. 

“That was not the welcome I was expecting.” The mirth in the Beast’s voice shocks Enoch enough to let the winter spirit up. 

“My deepest apologies, Hope Eater,”

The warden chuckles as he stands, shaking dirt from his furs. 

“Might I assume you were busy?” The warden asked, head inclined.

Enoch tucks his tail around his paws. 

“Hardly,” Enoch lies, already rubbing up alongside the Beast and nosing along the line of his jaw. “What brings you to my neck of the world, neighbor?” He purrs, and the Beast hums a soft harmony. 

From under his furs, he pulls a bottle glistening with gilded liquid and absolutely reeking of alcohol. 

The Beast’s eyes twinkle with blue. 

“I was wondering if you might join me for a drink, Cat?” His voice absolutely drips with a challenge, and Enoch has never been able to resist temptation if the Beast is the one to offer it.

Enoch croons. 

“But of course,” And begins to lead the Beast back to his barn. 

Later, when he’s rounding up twice as many turkeys without the cover of night to help him blend in, he grins wryly. 

An evening drinking himself silly in good company was more than worth it.

* * *

To be fair, Enoch is not the only one who is easily distracted by the Beast’s presence. 

His Pottsfeilders are more than guilty of stopping their work to stare at the Beast or try to rope him into a conversation. 

They're having a vote about the merits of opening up their own mine or continuing to trade for iron to use for tools. They’ll have to trade for more iron initially to set up the mine, and Enoch will have to be involved in the plotting of it to ensure they don’t disturb some of the newer dead who are still deep in the earth, but it would make Pottsfeild considerably more self-sufficient. 

They seem to be making good progress, polite debates and votes and recounts and the like. They might actually come to a conclusion today. 

He’s so enraptured in the debates, putting forth his own arguments here and there and keeping the peace, that he doesn't truly comprehend the implications of the Beast entering Pottsfeild when he feels it. 

By the time the Beast makes his way to the barn, it's far too late to send the catskin to intercept him and try to preserve focus on the topic. 

If Enoch had been a little quicker, perhaps he could have slipped his voice out of mortal hearing to warn the Beast that his barn was currently chalked full of Pottsfeilders or scent him out to the fields for a walk with the catskin. As it stands, he isn't quick enough, and the door of his barn creaks open. 

The Beast slips in without properly looking around, turning to the door to gently shut it. 

When the winter warden turns around, he freezes like a deer caught in the light, shoulders hunched. 

He stares out across the sea of Pottsfeilders, and carved jack-o-lantern faces stare back. 

Enoch couldn’t have done anything to stop them. 

“Oh! Mr. Hope! So good to see you again!” Says Miss Clara, already at the Beast’s side, hands clasped and radiating pleasantness.

“Oh, please, come in, come in, lad! We were just talking about a little project!” Calls Mr. Bitters as voices rise in a chorus. 

“Enoch  _ has _ invited you to the harvest festival, hasn’t he? Oh, I’m afraid he’s just been so absent-minded recently.” 

“Not that it's his fault, of course, it's been a busy season after all.” 

Ms. Elizabeth takes his hand to greet the Beast. 

“It has been an age since we’ve seen you, Mr. Hope.”

“Quite right, quite right.” 

“Mr. Hope, I don’t suppose you’ve met Dr. Raymond. He’s been quite interested in learning a little about you.”

“Oh, do say you’ll stay the evening!” 

“I’ll have a bed made up just for you, dear, if you do!” 

“I don’t imagine he’ll need it. Enoch is always so contentious about offering his own barn after all.” 

There were a few barely stifled giggles at that, and a few more than bawdy innuendos, which were quickly hushed.

“I don’t suppose you could be tempted to sing for us this evening, Mr. Hope.” 

“Where are our manners! You’re probably worn out. Can I get you something to eat, dearie?” 

Their voices spill over each other in an overlapping colleague as they crowd the winter spirit.

The Beast stands there awkwardly among the throng of Pottsfeilders, nodding politely and offering the occasional monosyllabic reply when he manages to get a word in edgewise. 

Enoch watches fondly, a chuckle rumbling through him as he clasps his ribbons in front of him. 

They’re absolutely not going to get any more work done this evening, and Enoch can’t find it in himself to be the least bit bothered about it. 

* * *

Enoch is tending to his crops. 

Not the rows of corn, or seas of wheat, not the gourds or the apple orchard. 

He’s taking care of his citizens. 

He’s always caring for his citizens, but on special nights, nights when the moon is bright, he tends to his citizens who aren't ready yet. 

He hums, singing sweet lullabies to them, embracing them in plenty beneath the earth.

As they decompose, or in rare cases, recompose, their bones shift, ribs cracking under the weight of soil, jaws getting separated from their skulls. 

He rearranges their bones with gentle care, setting joints back in place with his roots, turning bodies to face the sky, separating clusters of them, and nudging others closer together. 

Its slow work, every movement a labor of love, carefully calculating, drawing some closer to the surface, those who are more ready to come up. Others he nudges deeper into the earth, into his embrace. 

They’re not ready. They’re still fearful, still hungry, still cold. 

He’ll hold onto them until they’re ready, and when they are, they’ll join their brethren on the surface. 

The world is glass, quiet, and silver, and still. The wind stirs softly and tosses about leaves, fiddling with Enoch’s ribbons as he ghosts across the empty fields, his roots at work in the soft dark earth below. 

Something is on the air, soft and subtle, the impression of a song. 

He thinks it's his imagination at first, creating harmonies for his humming. 

Slowly it grows louder, approaching, and he is able to place it. 

The Beast is singing, a waltzing tune, perhaps even a lively one, slowed down and warped into something twisted. 

He listens to it for a long while as he works. The volume of it ebbs and flows as if the Beast is doubling back and returning. 

Sometimes the song pauses for moments, sometimes minutes, but it always picks up again right where it left off. 

It's a pleasant backdrop to his task, the Beast’s song twisting about, carried softly on the wind. 

It drops off again, and Enoch picks up his own soft humming to fill the silence. 

When it picks up again, it's far closer, nearly to the border, and it has taken a decidedly different tone. 

It's no longer ambient, having taken on a decidedly more ‘come hither,’ tone, decidedly teasing, decidedly calling.

Enoch glances up from his methodical work and slowly begins to drift towards the border, already humming along and picking out the melody. 

There will be time to rearrange his crops later. 

It's not every night he has a partner for a duet, after all.

* * *

Enoch has a map. 

It's a sprawling piece of paper, with other parchment scraps that have to be laid over it or folded in a certain way to make any sense. 

It's certainly not a pretty thing, all ruddy charcoal lines, and indecipherable symbols. 

It wouldn’t help anyone lost, not by any measure, but it wasn't meant to. It wasn't for any eyes but his own. 

It was a map of twisting lines, overlapping boxes, long hash marks, and little symbols that don't mean anything to anyone to him. 

Overtop of it, he lays a sheer sheet of parchment, so thin you can see the dark lines under it. Over it, he plots something which might mean something, but not to a cartographer, to a particularly observant botanist might point out that it looked rather like root systems. 

Enoch doesn't bring his map out often, usually only when Pottsfeild expands, taking a sliver out of the winter woods. 

It's not for anyone but himself, to help him keep track of where everything was laid out, where they could build new silos and barns. 

He doesn't usually wear skins with hands, much preferring his maypole. Ribbons were far more flexible and had far more dexterity. 

That being said, holding charcoal steady in them was a touch of a chore. 

He manages just fine, and sometimes, when Miss Clara is feeling a touch lonely and comes to keep him company, he’ll instruct her which marks to make on the paper. 

She doesn’t understand it any better than any other Pottsfeilder who sees it, but she’s always happy to help. 

He’s trying to plot out fields. He has an almanac one of his Pottsfeilders had traded for open with one set of ribbons and squints at the little rain and sun maps in it. He makes rough indications with his charcoal, the catskin’s eyes put to work scanning the almanac as the maypole toils over the map. 

Musn’t have too much direct sunlight on the turnips after all. 

Nothing’s decided yet, of course. 

It will all be put up to a vote at the next town meeting. 

He stifles a twinge of annoyance as a lick of the paper begins to curl up. 

He glances up to the corner where the Beast stands in perfect shadow, watching fascinated as Enoch works on his map. 

“Do you map, neighbor?” Enoch asks, and really, maybe he’s looking for a distraction. Plotting outcrop cycles was dreadfully dull. 

“No.” The Beast says simply, leaning forward slightly to look at Enoch’s scribbling mess. The Beast doesn't try to orient the map or find any meaning in it. He seems quite content simply to just observe the messy lines. 

“Hm?” Enoch croons, making a small shape in one area with a flick of his ribbons. 

“I have no need.” The Beast elaborates stiffly, taking a long stride to peer curiously at the map. “I am my forest as much as I am flame.”

“Surely not  _ as much _ ,” Enoch teases. “You guard your flame far more preciously than your forest.”

“As much,” The Beast murmurs, stooping over Enoch’s map, tracing a root system with a single claw, eyes ringed by lazy colors. “It is different, but I am fuel as I am flame.” 

The Beast tilts his head as if reconsidering his previous statement. 

“Perhaps that is not quite an adequate analogy,” The Beast mutters and seems to be looking for a better explanation. 

Enoch soothes a ribbon over his furs, catskin having abandoned the almanac to twist between the Beast’s feet.

“I understand.” He croons sweetly, and the Beast hums. 

“No,” The Beast says at last. “You don’t.” 

Enoch chuckles at that. 

“Then perhaps you should explain.” 

The Beast pauses. 

“It is… difficult to articulate.” 

The maypole pulls into a wide grin at that. 

“Would it be easier to illustrate, neighbor?” Enoch asks, offering the stick of charcoal. 

The Beast hesitates, furs bristling and smoothing over, then reluctantly, he takes the charcoal. 

Enoch doesn’t get any mapping done that night, but he ends up with more than a few abstract drawings.

* * *

Enoch notes the Beast’s presence as he walks along the fence wearing the catskin. 

The Beast has an axe in hand and is halfway up an edeltree. It's the only one so close to the border. The blade of the axe swings silver, glinting with the moonlight as the Beast drives it into a limb of the tree.

“Seems like the work of a lantern bearer.” Enoch remarks from where he sits at the border. 

The Beast stiffens briefly before relaxing and turning luminous eyes upon him. 

Enoch cannot properly see him. He’s merely a silhouette against the stars. 

“Typically, yes. I currently lack one.” The axe buries itself in the limb once more with a thunk. 

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you or one of your little pets cut down an edeltree.” Enoch muses. 

“I usually move them.” 

“Hm?” 

The Beast makes a vague gesture with his hand. 

“I alter my forest so that they are further from the border.” 

“Might I ask why you chose not to do so this time?” Enoch purrs. 

“I was not paying attention. Your autumn is too deeply rooted for me to twist winter.” 

Enoch hums at that and watches the Beast toil away. 

“Perhaps you should come down for the night, neighbor.” Enoch murmurs. 

“I have work to do, Harvest Lord.”

Enoch’s tail flicks. 

“Surely it can wait until morning.” 

“I will be far too weary in broad sunlight to work on this.” 

“I meant to imply, dear, that I would send some Pottsfeilders to make short work of it.” 

The Beast pauses, the rhythmic thunk of the axe falling silent as the Beast considers. 

At last, with a final swing, the Beast buries it in the branch. He leaps down from the tree in a nimble motion, abandoning the axe as he joins Enoch. He shakes his antlers, loose sickly leaves flutter away from them.

“I suppose it wouldn't do any harm.” He murmurs, almost hesitantly. 

“Wonderful!” Enoch purrs. “I simply must insist, if you’re not busy, you must join me for a stroll.” 

The Beast cocks his head, eyes ringing with blue. 

When he speaks, his voice is tinged by teasing mirth. 

“Well, if you insist.” 

And off they go.

**Author's Note:**

> Interested in the origin of this story? It was requested [here](https://doyouknowhowtowaltz.tumblr.com/) at my tumblr! Feel free to drop by and if you have a question or request go right ahead and drop it in my ask box!
> 
> Yeah so, I'm a liar apparently. I intended to just clear out the last ask in my inbox (If the Age Anon happens to be reading, I'm working on it, your story got really out of hand) But I'm probably going to put out two more. And hey, the asks in my ask box have been pretty good about shaking me by the shoulders and dropping inspiration in my lap, maybe I'll write a third.


End file.
